Careless Talk Costs Lives
by thebarefootflapper
Summary: "You already know my real name and that's dangerous enough as it is. You know what they say, Lieutenant, careless talk costs lives."- It's the summer of 1941 and Flight Lieutenant Tom Branson crosses paths with the mysterious Sybil Crawley, an enigma harder to crack than some of Herr Hitler's most complex codes.


_**This was written in response to a prompt over on Tumblr which was "Sybil and Tom meet during World War II. Sybil is a spy preparing to be dropped into France and Tom is an RAF navigator." It was only supposed to be a one-shot but it's got a bit out of hand. Let me know if it's something I should continue with :) x**_

* * *

**June 1941**

The smell of her perfume lingers on the pillowcase, on the tunic of his uniform and most probably on his memory until the last breath leaves his body.

Which he supposes could be any day now.

He'd held her close as they'd danced - perhaps closer than was deemed proper - and he'd marvelled at how soft the skin of her back had felt beneath his own calloused fingertips in that scandalously low cut blue silk dress. He'd known then, however selfish it might have seemed, that he wanted her with every fibre of his being. Inadvertently, he'd developed something of a live fast and inevitably die young attitude - he risks his life almost every single day and every battle won just makes him feel as though he's on borrowed time. He's lost too many friends, comrades and brothers now to know that he can't taken even a single second for granted.

And when she'd looked up at him from under her lashes with those come hither eyes and a seductive smile on her scarlet panted lips, he had realised that she felt exactly the same.

_Despite the cool summer breeze, she's forgone her coat and he gallantly loans her his tuxedo jacket as the pair of them run hand in hand through the almost deserted streets of London, laughing and giggling like a pair of naughty school children. They know that it's dangerous to be out so late in the middle of a war that's come far closer to home than the last one ever did - a war to end all wars, they'd said about that one, but how wrong they'd been. _

_ Somehow, they find themselves back at his lodgings - a smart little flat close enough to Belgravia to provide him with some sort of status, but not so much so as to attract the price tag. "Tea?" he asks, not quite sure what else to say as he watches her elegantly flit around the room, inspecting his personal belongings and the shelves jam packed with books. _

_ She laughs then and steps towards him, her fingers beginning to undo the buttons on his waistcoat. "You know quite well that I didn't come here for tea."_

_ His mouth has gone dry - this is by no means the first time he has found himself alone with a woman, but then no woman has ever before made him feel this strange rush of emotion that races through his body. There's just something about her, something that he can't quite put his finger on just yet, that tells him she's not like the others and, God willing, she could be __**the one**__. _

_ He's in love with her. _

_ "Gin?"_

_ "Not gin either."_

_ "Then what?" _

_ "You." _

_ Her kiss is like opium - potent and addictive and it sets his very soul on fire. Consumed by desire, he squeezes her backside before letting his hands wander up her back and begin roughly tugging the thin straps of her dress from her shoulders. He looks at her quizzically when she bats him away and thinks that he might have done something wrong. _

_ "I'll kill you if you ruin this dress," she teases, pausing to nip at his bottom lip. "It's the only decent one I own nowadays." _

_ "I'll be careful then," he replies, caressing her breast through the undoubtedly expensive material and teasing her nipple in a way the makes her sigh with delight. _

_ "Tom," she moans, roughly tugging at his hair as he kisses her neck. _

_ "Martha..."_

_ "Sybil."_

_ He looks up at her quizzically, ceasing his ministrations for a moment or two. "But you said..."_

_ "I know," she replies quietly. "But my real name is Sybil."_

_ "I don't understand."_

_ "Please don't try to. I can't explain... I don't want to explain... not now, at least." _

_ His next kiss is tender and loving and she returns it with equal fervour, her dress soon sliding from her body and pooling at her feet. His breath hitches in his throat as he marvels at the sight of her, naked beneath it - not even a pair of knickers or stockings to preserve her modesty - and so beautiful is she that he refuses to believe anything other than that she was carved by the hands of one of the great masters. Sweeping her up in his arms, he carries her over to the small bed, the pair of them working together to remove the rest of his own clothing before beginning the most intimate of dances, the steps of which have been known to mankind since the dawn of time. _

**_-xxx- _**

_Giving him a moment to catch his breath, Sybil leans over him and makes a beeline for the packet of cigarettes on his bedside table. _

_ "Do you always smoke after making love to a man?" asks Tom. _

_ Sybil raises an eyebrow at him as she strikes a match. "What makes you think I've done that before?"_

_ "I can tell," he smirks which makes her laugh. "You're beautiful, do you know that?"_

_ "I've been told so once or twice," she replies. "Though I seldom believe it."_

_ "Why?"_

_ "Because I just don't."_

_ "Is avoiding questions another habit of yours?"_

_ "Is asking so many one of yours?"_

_ "I'm sorry," Tom apologises, taking a cigarette for himself from the packet. "I don't mean to pry. It's just that, I've met you several times down at the Embassy and yet I barely know anything about you." _

_ Sybil smiles at him softly. "I know but, just for now, I'd prefer it if we kept it that way. You already know my real name and that's dangerous enough as it is. You know what they, Lieutenant, careless talk costs lives."_

_ "I... wait, how do you know I'm a Lieutenant?" _

_ "The first time I saw you, you were in uniform. You had two stripes on your sleeve." She takes a long drag of her cigarette and only then does he notice it - the obscenely large diamond on the third finger of her left hand glittering in the candle light. _

_ "You're engaged?!" he asks rather angrily, suddenly feeling rather betrayed. _

_ Sybil looks down at her hand and then back to Tom. "Oh, no... I mean, I was, but my brute of a fiancé went and got himself blown up in thirty-nine."_

_ "I'm sorry."_

_ "Don't be," she replies, taking another drag. "I didn't care for him much. Though, saying that, he may have been a bit of a bastard but that doesn't mean I wished him dead. Do you know what I mean?"_

_ Tom nods. "I think so," he says. "Though why marry him if you didn't love him?"_

_ "Because that's just how it is in families like mine. His father was my sister's godfather... it was to be a marriage of convenience. But enough about me, as I say, the less you know the better... what about you? How does an Irishman end up in the Royal Air Force? That's a Dublin accent, if I'm not mistaken, little bit of a Galway twang."_

_ His jaw drops. "How do you know all this?"_

_ "The science of deduction."_

_ Tom sighs. "Alright, if you must know, I was in my final year at Oxford when a friend of mine convinced me to enlist. We thought it would be an adventure."_

_ "And where's your friend now?"_

_ "Confined to a wheelchair somewhere up in Yorkshire."_

_ "Oh..." she replies quietly."You went to Oxford? Not what I would have thought given that you have worker's hands... my guess is that you were educated by someone's charity."_

_ "If it weren't true, I'd be offended," he says, leaning back against the pillows. "My father served as chauffeur to an English Earl and his family... though, hang on a second, why am I telling you this? My personal information could be dangerous in your hands."_

_ Sybil stubs out her cigarette before gently taking Tom's from between his fingers and doing the same, moving to straddle his hips and letting the thin cotton sheet slip down to her waist. "I don't know," she says. "Though, the more we talk, the more we risk getting ourselves into trouble."_

_ "So what do you propose we do?"_

_ She leans down, the dark tendrils of her hair creating a thick curtain around them as she presses her lips to his. "I think I might have an idea or two..."_

_ As it so happens, those ideas might just have to wait, for the familiar high pitched wail of the sirens cuts through the darkness of a blacked out London. Scrambling for their clothes, they dress quickly and Tom leads Sybil by the hand down the narrow flight of stairs and out onto the streets. _

_ "What are you doing?" he asks as she stops abruptly. "We have to get to a shelter."_

_ Several inches smaller than him out of her heels, she stands up on tiptoes and kisses him firmly. "Thank you," she says. "Tonight was wonderful. I'll never forget it... but now you must forget me."_

_ And, with that, she's gone, running away from him barefoot in the middle of an air raid. _

**_-xxx-_**

He hadn't slept for the rest of that night, fraught with worry that something could have happened to her. He hadn't known where to find her, who he could contact to find out if she was alright. Other than that, life had gone on much in the same way as it had before and soon his leave had ended, only for him to be summoned to Pembrokeshire for a top secret meeting in early July. And so it is, early one Wednesday morning, standing on the platform at London Paddington waiting for the train that will take him to Cardiff, that he sees her again.

His Sybil.

The one that got away...


End file.
